Sprout out loud!

My wife is always trying to grow bean sprouts. Now that does not seem like a very difficult task since all it really requires is some water soaked bean seeds, a paper towel on a dish, and a clear jar. You probably already guessed they need light to grow. But what you might not know is to grow best, sprouts want to spend about 6 times as much quality time in the DARK as they do in the light.

You see right off the bat we have a problem. Hey I read stuff and I hear things ok - doesn’t legend have it that only BAD things thrive in the dark? I personally don’t like criminals, nasty translucent cave-bugs, or despite Hollywood’s current obsession, ‘pasty- faced’ vampires with overflowing teen angst.

I really do not like organic stuff growing around my sink either. Isn’t that why they invented bleach, Soft Scrub and scouring pads? I resent those moist, green, cracked ovoid bean heads with those creepy, translucent ‘umbilicals’. I don’t like their name either. Who would name their cherished offspring “Mung”? Do I need remind you, that name rhymes with ‘dung’? That alone, is reason enough to shun the dumb sprouts. Because on principle alone, aside from this blog, I try to keep my distance from anything in close proximity to dung.

Honestly I do not know what the attraction is in putting this whispy green hair on sandwiches anyway? If people would just leave the poor seeds alone and give them some suntan time, they may grow up into wonderful proud green beans someday? Then I would love to spend some quality time with them. In fact as best friends, I’d be sure to pick them first to attend my hot tub party and introduce them to my other buddies -Bacon, Salt, and Onion. Mmmm - I love it when good friends get together.

'High Five' things I miss about the oil spill

Actually there is nothing I really miss about the oil spill down in the Gulf. But in the interest of making lemon flavored water out of Lemonhead candy – uh well you get the point … I did assemble a list of the 5 things I will miss most about this front page story.After all, even in blogging, “you should never let a serious crisis go to waste” right? Although, after a scary 4 months, this news is older and riper than Homo Erectus and his petrified black banana.

COUNT 'EM DOWN FOLKS ...

FIVE ) I do love those big hotel and rental car discounts at the Gulf beaches. There is nothing like a stroll along a vacant white sand beach, alone with your thoughts, red temporary fencing, and a big ol' bag full of tar balls.

FOUR ) Oh how I will miss the last month of the President’s frequent open collar walks along the Gulf coastline, reflecting the concern of every average Joe and Joetta. Yeah closing airports, airspace, all boat traffic, and delaying thousands of workers from trying to contain the mess again and again is a double-darn dandy idea!

THREE ) Sadly I have to admit that I will miss myself, my equally naïve friends, and family all sitting around playing our favorite second-guessing game called “Just plug that hole”. Hey I use a garden hose all the time – I’m sure that oily 'ZIT' is no different a mile below sea level with 7000 pounds of pressure behind it right?

TWO ) Won’t we all miss those shots of turtles and sea birds experiencing a luxury oil dip treatment at the Gulf's BP spa? You could just see how relaxed they were after they got their final scrub down, wash and wax. I never thought about it before but for animals do they get a pedicure or a ‘critter-cure’?

And the number ONE thing I will miss from the Gulf oil spill is …

I may be an immature and juvenile ‘Slumdog’, but I’ll never get enough of listening to America’s first Indian Governor, Bobby Jindhal speak with a decidedly Louisianian accent. I mean I still have trouble with the locals here on how I say 'Missouri' (or MizzouRAH), yet this guy is apparently fueled by Gulf shrimp-water in his veins.

So there you have it. Give yourself a 'High Five' if you suffered stalwartly without skipping straight to number One. Hopefully the spigot stays shut, and the Gulf oil spill, along with this post, will soon be just a distant memory. Let's hope so,'cause the truth is folks, if it happens again, as far as funny goes - I'm tapped out.

Dad’s had his ‘Phil’ of Mixed Drinks

When I was just a pup, I idolized my parents. They could do no wrong - after all they decided to keep me relatively flea-free, EVEN after the ‘Lemon law’ was enacted. I was born into a household of small-town traditional values like “Eat or be eaten”, “Do unto others”, and “It takes a village … idiot!” I was lucky though as compared to others in my family tree. Not only did I always have a roof over my head – but for the three of us, that REALLY was a fairly roomy Cadillac.

Fortunately for me however, the family shunned their heritage and I lived in Denver, Colorado during my entire early life. Yes we may have flew the coop like chickens but mostly it was because my father loved his drumsticks. You see my Dad was a professional drummer in a dance band and if you wanted to work without being on the road every day, you had to live where the eardrums were.

Now invariably as a jazz musician, to practice his craft, my father had to navigate daily, the difficult waters between family life and his job with the orchestra. His commute would have been so much easier if we had never lived on that stupid island. I think those were the early beginnings of my Father’s life-long drinking affliction and genuine love for mixed drinks. So many nightclubs, dance joints, and Mitzvahs held at BARS as well as fancy hotels. At some point no matter how strong, BOTH the deodorant, and a man’s resistance – will eventually wear thin.

Over the years the drinking has gotten worse and worse. Yes it may have started with a benign orange and cream soda mixture, but soon two flavored pops weren’t enough. Suddenly with ‘maybe a splash of root beer here’ or an ‘innocent spritz of cola there’, my father’s suicidal concoctions have taken on new dimensions of all their own. Now everything is stronger, bolder, more daring, with 4, 5, and even 6 soda flavor combinations. They freely fizz, sparkle, and shamelessly comingle their caramel colorings in my Dad’s overflowing, ‘senior –sized’ McDonald’s cup.

All those wasted years of perfectly good soda being mixed and defiled again and again, day in and day out. Clearly, no matter how hard my Mother and I try, nor how much love my Father has for us, our spirits are powerless and flat. Alone, we are no match to the siren’s song of the ‘multi-spigot soda dispensing beverage station'. It’s clear (and bubbly) a professional intervention is in order. That’s why we have engaged help from a hugely successful, television ‘Pop’ psychiatrist sensation from Texas – the famed Dr. Pepper.

‘Participation’ Trophies for Life

Kids (and Alter boys) today are exposed to a lot more opportunities for formalized sports programs and competition than when I was young. Oh sure I had the after school recreation room where caroms were king and I learned to play REAL ping pong better. But other than an occasional informal throw-down between friends, we didn’t have coaches or parents routinely guiding and judging our daily improvement in our activities, or in my case, a lack thereof.

These days it seems from the earliest ages, parents wrap their kids up in all kinds of pee wee leagues and formalized sports programs. I am not sure that all that early competition is designed more for the kids or actually their parents? All I know is that each year as my daughter grew and progressed through the various sports leagues, she seemed to get more trophies every year - whether her teams won or not?

Now I walk through thrift stores and there are literally racks and racks of these little ‘participant’ trophies for purchase. I know where these come from, because my daughter has a whole bookcase filled with them. The really funny thing for me is, these ‘golden oldies’ are like photos, in that even if you don’t like them they are still hard to throw away. You know logically, the kid is NEVER going to haul this hardware to her own place, but HEAVEN FORBID if you melted them down into a golden butter dishes with marble bases.

I have tried archery once; maybe I should buy myself a little participatory trophy, topped with with a proud Indian holding a bow? In fact I’ve done hundreds (ok … well maybe dozens) of things in my life but for some reason I never received all my awards? Do you think my parents have been holding out on me or maybe they’ve just lost my address? I always wondered why they have so many butter dishes?

You can imagine after all these years, I actually have mastered breathing pretty well now, so for that one I think I deserve a trophy AND a ribbon. As for eating, I’ve exceeded everyone’s expectations and have become a well-rounded pro in both butterhorns and buffets. Whew - finally something that I am so good at that I’m too big to overlook - I can’t wait to receive my ‘just desserts’!

The 'Skinny' on Energy Drink Boosters

It is hard to imagine that the world’s leaders are always talking about trying to dig up and invent new sources of energy. Haven’t these people been up the street to a 7-11 or to any store check-out lane on the planet? I mean you really have to be wearing ‘ultra-dark’ sunglasses, slapping ankles and small children with a white cane to miss the so called energy ‘booster’ drinks and shots displayed everywhere.

What happened; did somebody forget that soda, tea, and coffee already had the caffeine and diuretic department covered and locked up? Now it seems anyone with a cute diminutive bottle, flashy label, and some filtered water is getting in on the action. Yeah I could toss out any ol’ pale yellow secret ‘witches brew’, featuring liquid vitamins with caffeine, and fitness fiends would take to it like summer bugs to a porch light.

Now I know being naturally hyper-kinetic, I’m not the best authority to speak to this subject. Beyond that, I suck-in my fair share of diet soda and coffee every week, which keeps my hot-air mouth afloat and the bathroom porcelain well exercised. In general however, it is probably best, if truly health- conscious folks would try to avoid these stimulant boosters as a part of their ordinary routine and diet.

The fact is, most of us ALREADY get a fair dose of these mild stimulants during the course of a day without the need for excessive supplements. I have linked a caffeine database here so ordinary sane people can look up and compare favorite beverages against the myriad of energy potions available. If you are insane (like our world leaders), and refuse to listen or learn in the face of established fact and historical data, I am linking the most powerful caffeine ‘buzz’ per ounce known to mankind. Yep, just pop an ounce or so of this ‘super nova’ stimulant and you won’t sleep for a week. Of course if you do it often enough, the next ‘booster’ energy shot you’ll get is from your doctor. He'll 'FIXX' you right up with a pair of cold metal defibrillator paddles,and if you are good and wake up - he'll give you a pale yellow 'Lolly'!

Suicide Sauces

Obviously blogging stuff should be an outlet, not a chore. So of course I remember sitting down to write at 9:30AM and still by 1:30PM I had not finished a single post for the day. Yes, I was up and down, distracted, too cold, hot, thirsty, tired … well you have probably been there a few times too. It is not my favorite part of the ‘creative’ process but when I get into a grind, I try to move around a lot, percolate, and do anything else than write, to mix-up the syrup in the synapses.

So as the sun irritatingly kept changing positions in the sky, I could tell it was well past Noon. Despite my lack of finished production, I decided a break for a big bowl of applesauce was in order. Please don’t mock me just because my lunch is on par with most 3 year olds. I know it is actually more sugar than apples, but secretly I LIKE thinking blueberry PopTarts and Strawberry Twizzlers ARE also healthy eating.

Anyway, the refrigerator is filled with Styrofoam take-home containers because my daughter brings home stuff every day from the restaurant where she works. That is great except those bulky foam things are always in the way of my applesauce. With a deftness worthy of those bomb-defusing spacemen in the Hurt Locker, I maneuvered the plastic jar of 'apple-pablum ecstasy' to a small opening in the front of the fridge. Sure enough at the last moment, the jar caught a small, translucent take-home cup of some kind of red sauce and it fell to the tile below. I was relieved to see that since the sauce was capped, there was no collateral damage and the floor was perfectly clean and the red stuff still edible.

Without hesitation, I temporarily suspended my rescue mission of the applesauce jug and tucked it innocently back into its burrow. Unbeknownst to me the applesauce jar’s lip was actually resting at a launching angle on top of a shiny slick ranch dip tub. As I let go of the portly jug of applesauce and began to bend down to retrieve the little red sauce, the obviously jealous-jug immediately slid off its perch and hurled itself out of the refrigerator to the ground below.

Now you know the ending to this story already don’t you? I mean, if you have ever sat through the slapstick hilarity of Abbott and Costello or the Three Stooges, you HAVE to know where that 2 pound jar of applesauce hit right? Yes indeed, the jug whizzed by my head in mid-flight, then completely flattened and obliterated that puny see-thru cup of red stuff. It was like Fat Albert had just done a cannonball on a Roma Tomato HOLDING onto a Cherry tomato.

My beautiful tile floor, table, walls, pant legs – you name it, they all instantly looked like a crime scene. Any C.S.I. could have analyzed the accident through the sauce splatter and oblong droplet patterns up to 6 feet away. This was definitely blunt force trauma, and the clean-up job was best left to our resident professional, my daughter the “Crushed Sauce Investigator". Remember, my kid works in a restaurant and has seen her share of horrific food tragedies – but why do they ONLY happen when I’m at HOME blogging?

Barefoot Bandit needs clown shoes

Well justice finally caught up with that scoff-law, the so called “Barefoot Bandit”. I actually resent using his media moniker because in some odd way I feel it validates his criminality. The simple truth is the guy was a petty low-life thief and I was ecstatic that the Bahamian authorities paraded him down the streets like a little puppet-monkey, before extraditing him back to the US. It seems the Swiss could have learned this lesson too if they would have pulled their finger out of their chocolate, and quickly Fed-Exed Polanski, the “Namby-Pamby Pedofile” back Stateside.

Though I have no compassion for villa-bound Polanski, there was a liberal part of me that felt concern for the poor barefoot kid’s damage - TO THE EARTH! Who wants this dumb dude’s dirty feet walking unprotected on any of our precious soil? I wondered, had this loser’s ‘Gigantor’ feet made it impossible to find properly-fitted footwear, possibly spurring on his antisocial life of crime? I shudder at the thought of the magnitude of the bandit’s crime spree, if big-boy ‘pants and panties’ had been as hard to come-by as apparently his shoes were.

Understanding this relationship between crime and footwear caused me to take preventative STEPS with my own daughter. She won’t mind me telling you that she has really big feet. Actually they are more like bridge abutments with toes. This obviously concerned us when she was young for fear that her future career was limited to two choices . . . Clown or Criminal.

So with a ‘life on the run’ out (tripping hazard), and Ronald McDonald’s refusal to retire gracefully to let a real GIRL do a clown’s job, my wife and I had to act to save my daughter’s future. For her birthday, we broke into our bacon money and covered the cost for our daughter to buy some custom designed shoes. Since the Chinese have nothing better to do than mold rubber for freakishly large American feet, they also give you free reign to choose colors, laces, imprint, styles, height etc.

Yes it’s high time for the Barefoot Bandit to reach down in his ‘sole’ to declare ‘Carpe Feetum’ and embrace law-abiding footwear. I have linked the NIKEiD site here if you too are blessed with the Monitor and Merrimack instead of feet at the end of your legs. Now there’s no reason to skulk around barefoot and live a life on the lamb or any other farm animal. Because with today’s technology, it’s a simple feat to confidently KICK crime to the curb, and make your very own pair of custom clown shoes!

Boogers and Fries

Tonight my wife said we had to run a few errands before dinner. The promise of food is her effective lure as my compensation for the tortures of shopping. We agreed after our stops we would head to a small shopping center for a hamburger. That is not ordinarily an eventful activity but today was disgustingly different.

On our way into the parking lot of our second destination, we saw a uniformed man standing at a bus stop in a green hat. He seemed like an ordinary ‘sub-shop’ guy in every other way; in fact so much so I am not sure why both my wife and I noticed him. It was hot out, so as he raised his hand to his face to wipe his brow, his finger extended and did not stop until it reached its hilt - IN HIS NOSE?.

Excuse my primal,teenage vernacular screaming, but ‘OH MY GOD’?! If that was not bad enough, despite a bit of a gut, ‘Nostril-damus’ proceeded to predict impending hunger, so he popped that tasty morsel into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for a week. After our ten minute stop, I guided the car back onto the street and can you believe it – ‘sandwich man’(with gusto), snatched yet ANOTHER jalepeno from his double-holed ‘Durante’ and tossed it back faster than you can say ‘chewy satisfaction’.

Now folks, this is why I don’t ride buses any longer and am willing to pay exorbitant fuel costs to drive a surplus Sherman tank around town. I am all for recycling and ‘Green’ transportation but not anywhere near to this ‘nugget cruncher’s’ warped definition. Why on one of my few trips out for good behavior, must the boogeyman PICK this one, to show me the benefits of self-sustaining organic food? I honestly just wanted to put this guy, with his formerly white cap and his obviously ‘gold-finger’, out of my mind and get to the restaurant quick. Needless to say, my wife and I ordered TWO burgers with fries – but predictably. . . we skipped the chunky neon-green relish!

I love my MUG

Admit it … so now you think I’m vain don’t you - just like that stupid song . Has society become so judgmental these days, that a guy cannot spend a little face time staring at his mug in a mirror anymore? Well, I have it on good authority that Carly Simon might have been having some varicose vein issues when she wrote that tune, so I would not read too much into 70’s pop culture.

No the mug to which I am referring and truly love is my little Mikasa “Teddy” mug. I guess you could pollute its butterfly cavity with tea and milk and all kinds of homeopathic colonics. But when REAL work has to get done, I fill that bear to the broad-brim with some hot java and watch him and his little mouse friend sweat. Truly, I am such a supporter of this cup and it fits me so perfectly, that despite the obvious ribbing, if it had straps on it, I would use it at the gym too.

All kidding aside, other than the effeminate ‘berry picking’ animals, this is the greatest mug I have ever owned. There is something special about the gentle slope of the lip-ledge and its comfortable geometry. That along with the antique white coloring of the china helps hide my obligatory dribbles and unsightly lip-prints. Even as a weapon, this thing has the roomiest two-finger handle and perfectly sized thumb rest ever. If this mug shot hollow points, it would be the standard issue in every police precinct of San Francisco’s finest and most fabulous.

If you were to visit me at home, I maintain a special coded system of ‘mug-dom’ to denote your relative beverage status. For ugly guests, I have a closet filled with dark, heavy, and imposing stoneware mugs. You know the ones, with their ‘oh so macho’ manly missles and boy-toy icons emblazoned on the side. For beverage drinkers of the weaker sects, I offer up the virginal all-white mug with maybe a flower or two for their ‘special’ designer, non-caloric ‘kool-aid’. But for the truly honored and most special guest, I will begrudgingly surrender my treasured Mikasa mug for you to love and briefly lock-lips. You’ll soon discover, just as Carly did in her musical lament, when it comes to mugs “Nobody does it better” than my ‘Teddy’!

Red Devil Juice

Can somebody explain the connection between Satan’s bodily functions and hot sauce names? I have to be honest there are few products that I would willingly put on my food if I found out they have the Devil’s personal endorsement. Yet people seem to line up to cover their ribs and wings and other body parts with these unusually spicy named sauces.

My wife recently brought home a sample of some restaurant’s “Satan’s volcano” sauce. The stuff is eye-watering hot as advertised. I have not compared it to the pack of “Devil’s spit” hot sauce I have in the fridge but I am assuming the SPIT is not as warm as 'Devil's blood' sauce, and no where near as hot as any volcano, especially one claimed by Satan.

Now this hot saucy name phenomena is not limited to any one region of the country like the South or the West. No I have been as far North as Seward, Alaska that proudly displayed their 200 or so different bottles of sauces to try right there on the wharf. Also when the town was not possessed by ALL of the world’s motorcycles in one square mile, I even popped into a restaurant in Sturgis, South Dakota. This place was a pretty normal main street diner except that all flat surfaces have empty bottle of nasty-named hot sauces. Honestly some of these hot sauce names would make the devil blush, but you’d never know it – him being 'well red' and all.

So I’m not really sure how the normally DEMONstrative ’Prince of Darkness’ allowed his juices to get quietly hijacked by these hot sauce manufacturers? You’d think somebody as high profile in today’s society as the devil, he would have legions of evil spawn to protect his brand’s ‘bad name’, and do his evil bidding? Oh I forgot he does – they are called ACLU LAWYERS! Anyway, I have linked The SAUCE STORE web site here if you’re burning for some hot and spicy reading. Remember the ‘devil is in the details’ so beyond the horned one’s namesakes, if you browse a bit you might ADD a new sauce or two to tickle your fancy. Remember of course, they tickle a lot less on the BACKSIDE of that equation!

Redneck Games Reunion

Once again I somehow missed the Summer Redneck Games in E. Dublin, Georgia on Saturday. This is that spoof (sort-of) alternative Olympics started down South when the real five ring Olympics stopped by in Atlanta awhile back. Although the event takes a lot of ribbing in the national media, it actually collects quite a bit of dough for charity, while having a lot of fun.

I’m not so sure what the big deal is though about throwing toilet seats as horseshoes? In Missouri we just throw the whole toilet out in the yard. Actually my nephew used a sledgehammer to break-up an old toilet of mine and we ended up burying the pieces in the backyard. The irony was the toilet rubble was buried to help with WATER control and erosion! Gee I thought that was what diapers were for?

Yeah those Georgian’s down at the Redneck Games have nothing on us Missourians. When we ceremoniously light our BBQ grills here, usually at least one random rodent and a flurry of insects vacate the thing quick. We are not big on Porky pigs feet here, but as I’ve mentioned before just across the ‘Big Muddy’ is a joint that people flock to for Pig snout sandwiches and love ‘em.

So to get in the mood and ready for next year’s Redneck games, I’m thinking of getting one of those mullet haircuts sewn right into a truckers cap. I’ll have to dig around and see if I can find my cut-off jeans made out of the Confederate flag. Though it has been quite a few pounds ago since I wore them, there is nothing quite so nice as resting your sweaty rump on the Confederate flag. Gee I had better be extra careful with those flag pants seams if I bend over though – NOBODY wants to see those Confederates split from the Union again!

Trashy Magazine Overload

If there is one thing I always seem to be drowning in, it is magazines. It really does not matter what the subject is or who in the household originally ordered the things. Once the mags are inside the house they pile up higher than pancakes at a kid’s ‘sport stacking’ convention.

I instinctively know that they are not necessarily valuable, but there is something very pleasing in a stack of random magazines to read. I guess that is why the Kindle E-book reader and Ipad concept don’t really appeal to me. I want to be able to pick up a glossy covered rag and feel the ink come off on my fingers. I want to dog ear pages and fan the leaves to randomly choose an interesting tid-bit or two to read in-between some chore I have to do.

Probably my love for random magazines started when I was very young when houses actually had alleys behind them. I would always find something of interest in the alley trash bins and one house in particular always threw away stacks of National Geographic magazines. I would drag those home to leaf through and study maps, until my parents house was overflowing. Those perfect yellow rectangles with the lush, handsome photographic covers always felt like real treasure then, as they do now.

Most magazines around here originate from some type of reward or ‘bonus program’ for belonging to a certain auto club, being a member of a utility, organization, or charity. My daughter has made it her mission to utilize ‘Coca Cola’ points to buy fitness magazines. That way, In her mind, at least some tangible good can be had from drinking the ‘liquid evil’ of carbonated beverages. My folks contribute to my newsstand stockpile regularly too, with gifts of magazine subscriptions for birthdays, holidays, or special events. Or at least I THOUGHT they were gifts? Maybe it’s really PAYBACK for making them have to forklift out all those crates of trash bin mags when I was just a kid!

Multitasking is Taxing

Hey don’t think I lack sophistication just because I am a lowly knotheaded blogger. No, I can ‘demi my doggy tasse’ with the best of breeds if forced to. You may find it particularly revealing that I am probably the last dinosaur in America who owns his own tuxedo that isn’t a lounge singer or Mafia Maitre D’.

Yes, I am a chameleon by nature and over the years it has served me well – at least most of the time. The truth is, that trying to fit a fat square peg into a myriad of skinny round holes all of the time can be taxing. Obviously people like myself are not specialists at ANYTHING and to even keep up with ordinary life requires a lot of perceived multitasking, and for me - whining.

The reality however is that the whole concept of doing more than one thing at a time WELL, is not very realistic. Yes you can answer the phone, watch TV, blog, do a load of laundry, make dinner, read etc. etc., but whether you know it or not, all that stuff takes you a lot more time while attempting to multitask. Your brain is wired to operate serially so every time you pause from one task to start another, no matter how fast you have trained to try, you actually are suffering inefficiencies in thought. The result is slower completion of tasks, inattention, loss of focus, and not unlike a caveman, a ‘harried’ life.

So avoid the stress and experiment for yourself by cutting down on a few of those juggling balls that you’ve got in the air. Nobody will think you have lost your ‘edge’ just because you cannot sing opera and chew gum at the same time. You can still be a sophisticated high-society ‘deb’ and a closet blogger; you just cannot do it all at the same time. I know, I’ve ruined your long established beliefs and clearly I must be possessed by the devil? So for you 'single-tasker' athiests, I have linked a great article from the Harvard Business Review which lends a little fuel to my fiery thoughts. Gee I never noticed those horny bumps on my head before – maybe that’s why I’m a knothead?

Eggs should be whipped not coddled

We had a guest over today which while that may be a bit out of the ordinary, it is not spectacularly interesting. This girl is a long-time friend of my daughter who I felt I knew pretty well but had never considered adopting before. But that all changed at breakfast because I found out this girl adores hot eggs on toast.

Though I love my hot breakfasts too, nobody in my household cares for anything except cold wet cereal. Both my parents and my wife’s folks enjoy their tasty cakes, sausage, eggs, and hash browns for a regular morning feast. So what happened genetically to my wife and young spawn to 'scramble' their brains and make them turn ‘white’ when they see eggs?

Are these really people that I should be associating with on a daily basis? I honestly don’t know how long people should go without egg on their face, but I for one don’t want to find out. This constant rejection of my breakfast values, honestly makes it harder each day to ‘quiche’ my family in the morning and mean it. I feel like an outsider and my nerves are ‘fried’. Clearly I need an egg-substitute like my daughter’s friend as my adopted ‘albumen-buddy’.

I may have one problem with my daughter’s friend though because she eats her eggs ‘sunny side up’. Except for my nose, I don’t anticipate anything ‘runny’ when I first get up, and I’m rarely ‘sunny’ at dawn. Those kind of eggs have to be gently prepared and handled carefully. When I first crack the coffin, the only thing I want to do is whip something – not ‘walk on eggs’ to make high-brow chow. Maybe I need to re-think adopting my daughter’s egg-eating friend and her fancy tastes. At my age, the only thing I want to coddle, is maybe another pan of eggs!